


no one really sleeps alone when you are loved

by estir



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extended Metaphors, M/M, a lot of vague and disturbing metaphors pertaining to nature actually, and colors, slight Berseria spoilers kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estir/pseuds/estir
Summary: The sun sets over the canyons of Glaivend Basin steadily. Mikleo sits to watch, content to float along until Sorey joins him.Nothing really seems... real.





	no one really sleeps alone when you are loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [royalDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalDelirium/gifts).



> Gift fic #2 of 2 for Minato!! <3333  
> This one was planned for back when your bank account was hacked. I'm glad everything worked out in the end, but I still wanted to write something for you. This was originally based on the prompts you sent me one day, but then the story kind of... got away from me. So. Oops.
> 
> Thank you [Shizu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shizujo) for the betas!!

The sun sets over the canyons of Glaivend Basin steadily. Few clouds dot the reddening sky, catching bright orange and golden rays as they meander slowly along. A darkness creeps in from the east, but the navy blue isn’t at all disconcerting-- it is merely part of the sunset, contributing to the ethereal nature that keeps it so stunning every time. The temperature drops steadily with the encroaching night in stark contrast to the dry desert heat of the day. Canyons pull the wind in scattered directions, gentle but unrelenting.

Mikleo can’t help but shiver as his bangs rush around his forehead, as his short silver hair is hopelessly tangled by the evening breeze. He dangles his feet over a cliff-face, kicking his boots gently against the clay and sand and rock. Camp is set up a few paces away, back in the shadow of an even taller outcropping of rock, but he can smell the savory scent of prickleboar stew from here. It’s Lailah’s turn to cook for the group, Rose’s turn to gather firewood, and Sorey’s and Edna’s turn to secure a water source and perimeter. Zaveid is napping like a cat, stretched out in the last warm rays of sunshine before night overtakes them. His errant snores are mostly drowned out by the passing gusts of wind and by the familiarity that Mikleo now associates with the sound.

His fingers thread through the rough patch of crabgrass behind him. Pulling at the weeds and feeling the resistance, the way the roots dig in and ruthlessly cling to the earth, is soothing. It almost feels like the only thing keeping him from floating off into the basin, adrift amongst the warmest violets and oranges and pinks.

They’re all so tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Malevolence still lingers in darker corners of Glaivend Basin after the last battle between Rolance and Hyland. It lingers longest in Forton, even after they had been able to purify the Medusa. They all feel it, feel their hearts pull toward the tendrils of dark smoke, but there isn’t any time. There’s never time anymore. 

He pulls at the weeds again, and the dried stalk snaps free. The release startles him enough to flinch, but he throws the broken grass away quickly. His hands are pink and dirty, creased with the imprint of weeds and rocks and sand. The slight tingle of numbness against his growing callouses is a bit startling, but he rubs circulation back into his palm and folds his forearms across his lap.

The view from up here fades darker still until shadows dance against the firelight in his periphery. Mikleo hears their party regroup, hears Zaveid wake up with a soft startle. He hears the clatter of wood and Rose’s ensuing shout of triumph of a job well done. The blue tips of his hair shift in the air when Edna and Sorey return, laughter swarming like fireflies amongst them all. His heart pulls toward that soft familiar laughter, toward the warmth of fire and found family, but he doesn’t turn around.

It hurts too much, this void in his chest, this absolute ache. If he moves from here, he knows the exhausted tears will fall.

The sudden hand on his shoulder startles him. It’s heavy and calloused and warm and oh so familiar. It reeks of dirt and sweat and the leather bindings on that Ceremonial Sword, but the moment he registers that it’s Sorey, he relaxes into the hold. It’s a subtle action, built on a lifetime of trust and affection, but Mikleo knows the volumes it speaks in his soul. In Sorey’s.

“Hey,” Sorey says, and his voice pulls a nauseating warmth deep in Mikleo’s gut, “you alright?”

Mikleo moves his right hand to gesture at the space next to him because he knows-- he  _ knows _ \-- that if he opens his mouth, he’ll scream. The hand doesn’t leave his shoulder even as Sorey takes the cue, and the soft weight pulls Mikleo’s soul from the sky, from the dark depths of the canyon below, to ground him here, now.

“Hey, Mikleo, can you look at me for a second?”

Sorey’s voice is soft and deep, a gentle comfort as warm as the mid-morning sun. He grips the material at Mikleo’s shoulder, squeezes worry and reassurance into the juncture while he patiently waits. The pulse pulls Mikleo toward Sorey, pulls him into that ever-present warmth and familiarity. And with merely a blink, one and two and three, Mikleo turns to look over his shoulder at familiar green eyes.

The darkness that surrounds them fades to pale violet in the instant their eyes meet. The dirt and rock of that familiar basin disappear into the depths of an endless void, and the muted browns and reds are replaced by a vibrant, neon blue. Mikleo’s feet still kick off the edge, but earth does not inch around the edge of his boots. Instead the sunset fades backwards into endless depths of a bright white light, brighter and larger than the galaxies that drip across the darkest night skies. No weeds grow here. Nothing tethers Mikleo to this place, to this extension of reality.

Nothing except for Sorey’s furrowed brow. Nothing except the steady hand still on his shoulder.

“I’m--” Mikleo starts, but has to choke back the lump of emotion and snot in the back of his throat, “I’m asleep again, aren’t I?”

Sorey takes a deep breath, and Mikleo glances at the rise and fall of his collarbone under a thin black shirt. Part of him had expected to see the Shepherd’s cloak still across his broad shoulders, and when he focuses more on the thought, the scene before him stutters. He’s almost pulled back to the scene at Glaivend Basin, to Sorey sitting in the glow of fading sunlight in his regalia, with their friends close by and the warmth of another long day settling on his weary bones.

But he lets the image fade away with Sorey’s elongated exhale, looks back at Sorey’s forlorn expression, at the way his lips pull tightly in a grimace.

“You mentioned this was part of the Earthpulse, the soul and life of the Earth,” Mikleo says suddenly, grasping at a change of topic that can calm his racing heartbeat, “I’m still not sure if I understand what you mean. I know you said you would try to discuss it with Maotelus more, but I don’t know if I can truly believe that any of this is more than just-- just a figment of my wildest dreams and deepest yearning.”

He watches Sorey nod, feels the hand on his shoulder trace a line to the base of his neck. The way Sorey’s face falls is so achingly familiar that it punches a hole in Mikleo’s heart, right beneath his lungs.

After a moment, Sorey tries at a half-smile, “Are you saying you yearn for me?”

He means it as a joke, a tease, a lighthearted jab at Mikleo’s guarded nature with regard to his emotions. Had they been back on that ledge in Glaivend Basin, Mikleo probably would have been flustered at the depths of the word  _ yearn _ . His cheeks would have dusted pink, he would have stuttered around it, and he would have turned away. He would have closed off, diverted the topic, buzzed around Sorey’s teasing giggles with shouts and assertions that he was level-headed and rational and cool.

Time is strange. The passage of time does a lot to change a person.

Instead the tears well at the corners of Mikleo’s eyes. Instead the word pulls the feeling to the center of Mikleo’s consciousness, pulls it forward from its constant slow broil on the back burner of his every conscious thought. He feels the yearning physically, feels it bubble up and overflow from the deepest depths of his heart until it climbs up his esophagus and chokes him, pours out of his mouth and nose and ears and eyes and scalp and skin, inch by inch.

“I do, Sorey,” he says through the absolute turmoil, “You have no idea how much I miss you.”

In the moment a tear falls from his left eye, in the breath of a moment when it cools a drop onto the hint of dark circles under his eyes, Sorey’s hand pulls him closer. The warm pressure on his neck guides him easily, rustles the glowing embers of a flame long left untended in the base of Milkeo’s spine. Their lips meet without fanfare, without any hesitance or uncertainty.

Sorey kisses him hard. He holds Mikleo’s head in place harshly, and the pressure is more desperate than romantic.

“I miss you too,” Sorey mouths against Mikleo’s lips, and somehow the overwhelming longing fades. And for a moment, the feeling fades back to love.


End file.
